Isabel
by Royal Boobie Productions
Summary: Sherlock, John, 221b Baker Street, and... a baby?
1. Chapter 1

There was a knock on the door of 221b baker street. The storm outside was thick with blowing whiteness as the snow swirled and blew Christmas decorations down the street. Sherlock Holmes was thinking- and was in one of his hours long silence. John Watson, on the other hand, trooped down the stairs, shivering in his beige jumper. He opened the door and jumped as a blast of cold air hit him straight in the face. There was no one standing outside, but he looked down and saw packages. There was several bags, boxes, and a basinet that seemed to be holding a large white teddy bear wrapped in blankets. He brought in the basinet first, setting it on the ground inside the flat. The boxes and bags came next, and he called to Mrs. Hudson to help him, please. She carried the basinet up the stairs and set it down on the dining room table after John nearly fell over. He put the boxes and bags on the ground, walking over to the basinet. Mrs. Hudson had gone back downstairs. "John," said Sherlock, sitting up.

"What, Sherlock?" asked John, diverting his attention to the teddy looking thing. It wriggled. It turned as John stared placidly at it, finally plopping to reveal a pink face in the fluffy white suit. John yelped, which caught Sherlock's attention, and he looked over. The baby giggled and cooed. John unzipped it from it's suit and picked it up. A note fell out of the bundle of blankets. Sherlock came over and whisked it open with sure fingers. He read it swiftly, his eyes growing wide.

"Isabel," he said, looking at the child. She looked back, grey-blue meeting grey-blue. She bounced in John's hands, looking at Sherlock with a blank expression. Her dark, curly hair bobbed, her raspberry lips pressed together. Her nose twitched and she grabbed the air in Sherlock's direction. John looked at Sherlock, noticing the resemblance between the two. Sherlock grabbed her out of John's hands, examining the girl. "Uhm.. What do I do?" he asked, looking at John.

"Hold her. Where's that note?" asked John as Sherlock brought the baby closer to his chest. She snuggled into the crook of his neck, breathing softly. John whistled, his eyes wide. "Isabel, nice name. Isabel Katherine Holmes. Mother was Katrina Allen. Died last week in a plane crash from Germany, so you get the baby." John looked at Sherlock, who was gently rocking back and forth, ignoring whatever John had been saying. His eyes were on the baby, who was cooing and quickly falling asleep. "Sherlock, she's not very old. Only nine months." Sherlock nodded, his eyes flicking to John from Isabel. The infant sighed and was breathing deeply. "Are you going to keep her?" asked John, leaning on the table. Sherlock looked appalled at John.

"Of course I am!"

"Sorry mate, course you are. Where's she going to sleep?"

"My room," said Sherlock, walking softly down the hall to his room. It was then that Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs again, this time followed by Lestrade and Molly.

"Merry Christmas, John!" said Molly cheerfully. "Where's Sherlock?"

"Happy Christmas Molly. He's in his room, attending to his ahh.. Christmas present."

"You didn't get him an animal, did you?" asked Lestrade skeptically. There was a wail. "You did!"

"I - he hasn't opened his gift from me yet and-"

"John! Make a bottle!" Sherlock called. John sighed, sifting through the bags until he found the proper things. Sherlock waltzed out if his bedroom, carrying the shivering bundle of baby. John handed the finished bottle to Sherlock, gave it to Isabel, who quickly started eating, making baby noises as she sucked down the milk. "D'you have a pacifier?" asked Sherlock as her eyes began to droop shut. John handed a pink one to Sherlock, who replaced the bottle with it. Isabel snuggled into his side again, sucking on the pacifier. The guests all stared at Sherlock in surprise, as he finally looked up and noticed them all there. "Oh, hello. Happy Christmas everyone."

"Did you adopt a baby?" asked Lestrade, staring at Isabel.

"Of course not. Look, same hair, eyes, lips."

"You mean, that thing is yours?"

"She, Lestrade, is Isabel. And yes," he said, rocking back and forth again. Molly squealed.

"Can I hold her, please?" Sherlock nodded and Molly took the sleeping Isabel, who snuggled closer into Molly's chest. Molly sighed and rocked Isabel back and forth. "She's precious, Sherlock!"

"Yeah, how'd you make something so adorable?" asked Lestrade, sitting on the sofa and peering at the Christmas tree. Sherlock chuckled. Isabel yawned, blinking open her long-lashed eyes and staring at Molly. Molly laughed quietly. Mrs. Hudson said,

"Oh dear, she's quite the pretty one." Sherlock yawned. Isabel wailed again, twisting in Molly's arms and searching for Sherlock. Sherlock picked up the basinet and a bunch of blankets and went into his room again, quickly returning to the wailing Isabel and the increasingly anxious-looking Molly. The others had started opening presents and pouring the wine, blocking out the crying. Molly handed her to Sherlock when he held out his hands, and Isabel calmed down and closed her eyes as soon as her little body hit Sherlock's chest.

"Oh, you're so cute," said Molly, sighing. Sherlock smiled and dismissed himself back to his room, lying on the bed with Isabel on his chest.

John came in with tea the next morning to find Sherlock still asleep with Isabel perched atop his chest, breathing slowly and staring at his face. He knew that Sherlock had put Isabel to sleep last night in the basinet with a onesie decorated with ducks on. She was now sitting on his chest, basinet on the floor where she'd slept. And it wasn't just that, she had on booties now, and a hat. When she heard John, she turned and stared with innocent grey-blue eyes and waved a little hand at him. He waved back and she giggled. Sherlock woke up with a jerk, and Isabel tumbled off of his chest to the other side of his body, landing in a blanket and halfway in the crook of his elbow. He looked at her and she blinked back.

"What is she wearing?" he asked, averting his gaze to John. "It's not what I put her to sleep in."

"I dunno. I walked in with tea and she was up there with a hat and booties on."

"Well," said Sherlock softly, picking up Isabel.

"Da," she said.

Sherlock stared at her.

"She's only been here for a day, she shouldn't recognise me as her father."

"Perhaps her mother had pictures of you?"

"Hm." Isabel copied the noise.

"Hmm." She did it again.

"You're a very advanced baby, Isabel."

"Yerav urry adfnsby, Bel," she repeated.

"You're like a parrot," said John.

"Par," she said.

"It's not advanced; she's just copying the noises we make," pointed out Sherlock. Isabel made a very exasperated noise and then wailed. Sherlock looked slightly frightened as he put her back on the bed and dashed out of the room.

"Sherlock, where are you going?!" called John, following.

"I'm getting a nappy." He was digging through boxes. It took a few minutes before he found some and returned to his bedroom to find Isabel nowhere in sight. John peered around worriedly. The flat still hadn't been baby-proofed. But she was only nine months old, surely she couldn't-

They heard the soft pattering of baby feet down the hall. "John!" Sherlock yelped, leaping out the door. John followed quickly, searching for the mini-female-Sherlock.**  
**When they reached the stairs, they split up. John went up, Sherlock down. John heard a faint pattering as he climbed up the steps two-by-two. When he came into his room, he saw that she had somehow opened his wardrobe, climbed inside, and pulled out one of his jumpers. And she had crawled inside and was peering at him with an adorable Sherlock-like grin from the neck. She crawled out and whimpered, sitting up and grabbing her tummy.

"D'you want some food?"

"Mm?"

"Mm." Isabel's face lit up and John scooped her up.

"Mm, mmmm!" Sherlock appeared at the bottom of the stairs, shaking a bottle. "Da, mm!"

"That means she's hungry?" John nodded and gave her to Sherlock. She greedily sucked down half the bottle before spitting it out. "Mm! Ju!"

"Ju?" Sherlock stared quizzically at John.

"Ju! Ju!" she cried again, looking at John and squirming.

"John?" said John.

"Ju!" said Isabel, grabbing for John. Sherlock passed the squirming mini to John. Isabel squealed in victory and wrapped her arms around John's neck. John pointed at himself. "Ju," then at Sherlock, "Da."

It was now four in the afternoon, Sherlock was putting away the things that had been in the boxes, John was fixing a late lunch, and Isabel had finally fallen asleep with a battered stuffed dog on the chair. Sherlock, instead of moving her, draped a fluffy yellow blanket over her and resumed unpacking. There was a knock on the door. Sherlock groaned as Mycroft entered the flat, immediately wondering what the hell his younger brother was doing. "Sherlock."

"Mycroft." John slowly backed towards the sleeping infant in the chair.

"Happy Christmas, brother." Sherlock scoffed.

"Is that really all you came for? Happy Christmas."

"It was, until-" Something tugged on his trousers. He looked down to see Sherlock- well, obviously not, but the resemblance was uncanny. She rubbed her eyes with one hand, the other grasped around a threadbare stuffed dog. She was wearing a pink jumper and purple sweatpants, yellow socks adorning her baby toes.

"Da," she said, pointing at Sherlock. "Ju," she said, pointing at John. "Mummy," she said, lifting the dog. Mycroft stared at the girl. Then his eyes moved to Sherlock. Questioning. "Da!" she shouted, plopping onto the floor, rubbing her eyes and yawning. She curled into a ball around the dog and stuffed her thumb in her mouth. Mycroft looked down again and picked her up with surprising gentleness. He cleared his throat.

"Who gifted this to you?" he asked.

"She, Mycroft, she. Katrina Allen did. Well, not purposefully."

"How 'not purposefully'?"

"Katrina died last week in a plane crash."

"Ah, the one from Germa-" he was interrupted by a small outburst from Isabel.

"Crof?" John looked at Isabel.

"Did she just..." started Mycroft. Sherlock nodded.

"Crof. Crof, Da, Ju, Mummy." Isabel squealed and searched the room for Sherlock. "Da!" she cried, stretching as far towards him as Mycroft would allow.

"No," said Mycroft. She looked at Mycroft with a scowl, which quickly turned to a quivering lip. She opened her mouth and a small wail came out.

"Da!" she screamed, tears streaming down her face. Her arms and legs flailed as Mycroft held her as far away from his body as he could, looking rather alarmed. He sat her down on the ground and she took off, pulling herself to her feet and toddling to Sherlock, who took a baby rag, wiped off her face, and picked her up. She made a victorious noise, rubbing her tired eyes. She yawned, snuggling into the crook of Sherlock's neck, eyes closed.

"You interrupted naptime, Mycroft," said Sherlock in a scolding tone.

"What's her name?"

"Isabel Katherine Holmes."

"Hm. Well, regards to my favourite niece when she awakens. I have business to attend to." Sherlock turned as his brother exited the flat, rocking again. Isabel made a buzzing noise into Sherlock's neck. John returned to making lunch, staying silent while Sherlock stared at the piles of baby clothes on the table. John knew he was thinking, or deducing what he could from the soft, sweet smelling baby clothes. Isabel buzzed again, shifting slightly.

"I don't understand.. Why she didn't tell me that she'd gotten pregnant and that she'd had a daughter, my daughter." John looked at Sherlock, who's eyes were focused on Isabel. John shrugged.

"How'd you meet her, anyway? Katrina, I mean."

"She was my flatmate for a year and a half. Moved out about a year and two months before you moved in. The two weeks before she left was when it happened, and she didn't know and I didn't pay enough attention."

"So why didn't she tell you?"

"Didn't want to bother me, perhaps. Or she was just unprepared and didn't think about it. She moved back to Edinburgh with her sister." John nodded. Isabel stirred at Sherlock's voice, coughing and shivering, curling up. Sherlock removed her from his neck, grabbing the closest baby blanket he saw; a larger pink blanket with Isabel's name stitched in the corner. It was covered in small purple butterflies. When he was sure John's attention was averted to lunch, Sherlock's lips whispered across Isabel's forehead as he wrapped her in the blanket and took her into his room. He put her in the centre of his bed gently, creating a circle of blankets and pillows around her. She made the buzzing noise again, but it was more of a hum now as she squirmed. Sherlock left the room, closing the door almost completely, and going back down the hall.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock had bought a cake. He'd bought ice cream and several presents. He'd even gone and lit candles so the flat smelled less like chemicals and more like a place that people lived. John had come home early from work, arriving just five minutes after, finding Sherlock searching frantically around the flat, with his phone to his ear, things strewn carelessly across the place. "Sherlock!" John yelled. "What's going on?!"

"She's gone, John, Mrs. Hudson fell asleep while Issi was taking a nap and now she's gone. She didn't walk away, she's missing, so is her teddy, and the jar of money that was on the fridge."

"Oh." John's mind whirred. Who could've taken her? Who would want her? Moriarty, bent on revenge? "Who're you talking to about it?"

"My brother," said Sherlock, lifting up a sofa cushion. "You can tell someone's taken her, the money's gone, and they took the teddy. Mycroft, she hates the teddy. All she enjoys playing with are the blocks, my scarf and that damnable stuffed dog that her mother got her."

"Sherlock, I'm sure someone'll find her, we just have to be patient," said John, trying to be calm about the whole situation. Lestrade bounded in the flat, looking serious.

"What's going on?"

"As I wouldn't usually call you, it seems you deducted it was something important," said Sherlock, tossing his phone onto the sofa and nearly jumping across the room to the door, heading up the stairs. "Isabel is gone."

"We'll get her back, Sherlock, we can get-" Sherlock had breathed in deeply, then rushed down the stairs and out of the flat, into the unusually crowded Baker street.

Isabel saw Sherlock immediately, squirming in the strangers grip, whining. He had brought the strange brown bear with him, the one that constantly made fun of her Mummy dog, the teddy that she hated so much. She saw Sherlock look around, his gaze drifting a little to quickly over her and the stranger as they got farther and farther away. Saying 'Da' wouldn't do anything; it wouldn't be loud enough. So she screamed. Screamed and screamed bloody murder. His eyes snapped immediately to her. She reached, screaming. People began to notice the screaming child reaching for the man that looked so much like her and was running for her. "Da!" she screamed, pointing at Sherlock and looking at a staring woman. "My Da! Da!"

"Shush up," said the stranger, tightening his grip on Isabel's leg.

She only screamed louder.

Sherlock grabbed Isabel and pulled her out of the unsuspecting man's grip. As the stranger turned, Sherlock punched him square in the jaw, and he went down fast. Lestrade was there in mere seconds, handcuffing the stranger and relieving him of the teddy and the money. Isabel sobbed into Sherlock's neck with a tight grip on his shirt collar. Sherlock rocked her. "Shh, Issi, it's okay, Da's here." She continued to cry freely into his shirt, hanging tightly onto him. Lestrade stood up, handcuffs on the stranger.

"You're under arrest for kidnap and burglary."

"Tank you Strad," came a faint voice from Sherlock's collar. "Tank you Da." Sherlock walked swiftly back to 221b, removing Isabel's onesie when he got there, only to discover bruises forming on her legs from the man's fingers. He quickly put another onesie on her, a new one with an otter on the front. He handed her the Mummy dog and took her to his room where he curled up on the bed with his one year old. She fell asleep with her pink pacifier and her favourite fluffy yellow blanket, Sherlock asleep next to her at the same time, arms encircling her small body protectively.

He woke up around three in the afternoon. She was still snoozing. He called Lestrade. "I need to speak to that man."

"Well, okay, he's at the station."

"I'm coming in." He hung up the phone. "John, I'll be back later. Keep an eye on her, will you?" John nodded, looking up at Sherlock as he left.

He sat across the table from the man, who was handcuffed. "Why?" asked Sherlock, staring him down. The man was at least forty, and was currently unemployed. Sherlock knew who he was, too; Charles Allen, Katrina's older brother. One person who Sherlock had gotten into trouble.

"You know very well why," he growled.

"You were drug trafficking, it is not my fault that you were bad at hiding it. And what your mother did for your sister made you hate your sister, and that's hardly my fault either. So you kidnap your niece?"

"Only way to get back at you both."

"You do realise that your sister is dead?" That shut him up.

"You know she cut off all communications with me when she moved in with you, it hardly matters anyways." Sherlock sniffed.

"I'm done here," he said, standing up and leaving the room.

Isabel was awake when Sherlock got home again. John hadn't noticed, because she hadn't made any noise whatsoever. When Sherlock came into his room, he was greeted by an empty bed. "John?" called Sherlock, "Where is she?"**  
**"I thought she was... Oh," said John, walking in and looking around. "I don't see her."**  
**"Yes, that's the specific reason that I asked. She's got a birthday party soon, and I really hope that nobody's taken her again." He began lifting up blankets and inspecting underneath. There was a shuffling from under Sherlock's bed. He paused and lifted up his bedsheet, peaking underneath. She was there, playing in a box of new test tubes that Sherlock was saving. She looked up, startled. Then she giggled and crawled out, grabbing Sherlock's pant leg and pulling herself up. "Uppy," she said, looking at Sherlock. He lifted her up, taking a test tube out of her hand and tossing it onto his bed. She scowled at him unhappily, crossing her arms. "Mine," she said.**  
**" No, not yours, mine." She scowled more as they walked into the living room.

Isabel sat in her high chair. Apparently, it was tradition for a baby to have her own cake on her first birthday. There was vanilla frosting smeared all over her face. Her mouth was full of the cake. Molly was laughing hysterically and Mrs. Hudson was snapping pictures. Lestrade walked in with a bag and was greeted quickly by Sherlock, who was stacking presents on the table. John was shaking his head and laughing, looking at Isabel who was staring at them all confusedly. She continued to eat the cake anyways. When she pushed it away, Sherlock wiped off her face and hands carefully, lifting her out and wiping off her stomach as well.

"Mm," she said, smiling. Mrs. Hudson got a picture of the two of them before Sherlock sat her in the chair with the Union Jack pillow and handed her things to open. It only took her moments to realise that there was treats inside the wrapped boxes and bags. The first one, from John, was a baby sized, pink version of his beige jumper which she frequently played in. She looked at it curiously before yelling, "Jah!", which is when John came over and put it on her. She smiled triumphantly, bouncing. Mrs. Hudson took a picture. Mycroft slipped in, unnoticed by all but Sherlock. The next one was a fuzzy toy kitten from Molly. Isabel looked at it, climbed down from the chair and ran off to Sherlock's room, where she was followed and seen climbing into her crib and putting it next to her Mummy dog. She was promptly carried back to the chair by a proud looking Molly. Lestrade got her a set of rattles, teething toys, and rubber ducks, which she squeaked with an amused expression on her face until someone took them. She scowled until her next present was placed in front of her. It was a small, old looking rocking horse from Mrs. Hudson, who said it was an I-saved-it-for-my-son-but-he-never-comes-by-so-here-you-have-a-baby kind of present. Isabel looked at it with fascination before the next present was given to her. It was a package that had arrived in the post yesterday, from Katrina's mother. There was a letter that had said, "Katrina said that 'duck' was Isabel's favourite word, so I've taken that advice." It was true, Isabel did love ducks, and her grandmother had gotten her a fairly large stuffed one, and upon seeing the large yellow thing, she shouted, "Duck!" very loudly and sat on it for the rest of the evening. Mrs. Hudson took a picture of this, too. The next was one that Mycroft had brought along, from his and Sherlock's mother. It was a stuffed elephant that made Sherlock stiffen up because that was his elephant, Joffrey. Isabel hugged it to her face, and smelled it, and then shouted "Da!" extremely loudly, which made everyone in the room laugh hysterically as they realised it had been Sherlock's elephant. Sherlock's face was extremely red when Mycroft handed her his present. It was a yellow raincoat with an open umbrella embroidered on the breast pocket. Sherlock personally thought this an especially strange gift but Isabel loved it and put it on wrong to prove it. The last gift was Sherlock's. It wasn't extremely extravagant, just some onesies, a blanket, a stuffed hippo named Fredrick that he'd stolen from Mycroft, and a hat. Isabel's face lit up when she saw the hat. It was a hat that looked like a duck. He'd found it while going through some things that Katrina had left, and decided that it was the perfect thing. The onesies had animals or flowers, and the blanket was fluffy and light blue. She curled up on the chair underneath all of her things and everyone slowly said their goodbyes and trickled out. "I'll clean up tomorrow," said John, heading up the stairs to his room. Sherlock nodded, picking up all the new things and relocating them into his bedroom. Isabel stayed curled up, sucking her thumb and blinking tiredly. She still had on the hat when everything else that she'd received had been put away.

"Did you know," said Sherlock, picking up Isabel, "that Mummy made that when she lived with me? That was her job; she made stuff for people." Isabel looked up at him with tired eyes.**  
**"Mummy dog. Duck. Duck duck."**  
**"What did Mycroft get you?"**  
**"Coat."**  
**"What else did you get?" asked Sherlock as he opened the door to his room.**  
**"Jumper, kitty, duck, horsey, duck, elephant, coat, hippo, blankie, duck." She yawned. Sherlock changed her out of the arrangement of clothes she had on and into the otter onesie from earlier and put her in the crib. She curled up under her new blanket with her Mummy dog and the kitten, put her thumb in her mouth, and went to sleep. Sherlock, tired from the days activities, curled up under his blanket and did the same.


	3. Chapter 3

A little over two weeks after Isabel's first birthday, a woman showed up at 221b. John answered the door with Isabel on his hip. Sherlock was sleeping, because the last few days he'd been on a case. Isabel was hugging John's side, looking at her with tired eyes. She waved her hand. "Hi Gram."**  
**"Hi baby. Hello, sir, you are?"**  
**"Erm, John Watson. I live here. You are?"**  
**"Margaret Allen, Katrina's mother." John's eyes got a little wider and he nodded. "I talked to Mr. Holmes on the phone earlier, is he home?"**  
**"Uh yeah. He's sleeping though." She looked at her watch.**  
**"Seems like a strange time to sleep, four."**  
**"He's been working lately."**  
**"Ah." The cool April air swirled inside the flat.**  
**

Sherlock woke with a start. Someone was here. He rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted, but he felt a need to find out who it was. Pushing aside a pile of Isabel's toys and blankets that were on his legs, he pulled on his robe and got out of bed. It was five. Past naptime, then. He glanced at the crib. Sure enough, Isabel was there, thumb in mouth, bum in air, Mummy dog under her arm and a blanket draped over her as she snoozed. She breathed in deeply, yawned, opened her eyes, and blinked up at Sherlock. He stood there, looking at her. She sat up, then stood.

"Da-ee," she said, grabbing for him. He picked her up, laying her on the bed to change her nappy. He'd gotten good at it. When he picked her up again, she snuggled into his chest, gurgling.

"You hungry?" he asked, walking out his bedroom door.**  
**"Mhm. Milky. Pwease."**  
**"How bout green beans instead."**  
**"Ucky."**  
**"Pears?"**  
**"No!"**  
**"Bananas."**  
**"Nummy! Yay anana!" The talking from the other room had ceased. Sherlock smelled tea. "Who's here?" he said quietly.**  
**"Joh-on an Gram." She was still working on the last part of John's name. John thought it was cute. Sherlock thought so too, just less so than John did.

"Hm" was all Sherlock retorted. He set Isabel on the ground and grabbed for a banana. There wasn't any left. Sherlock frowned and grabbed a sippy instead, filling it with apple juice, which was not Isabel's favourite but it was all they had. He grabbed a rusk too; they seemed to be out of food. Sherlock didn't necessarily care that he wouldn't be getting any food, he could order Chinese if he was ever hungry. Isabel, however, could not. Conclusion: John needed to go shopping. Isabel was still at his feet so he handed her the rusk and sippy, which she gratefully walked around with. Sherlock made his way to the living room to see a familiar face; Katrina's mother. She'd called and asked to take Isabel for a few days. He obliged.**  
**221b was awfully boring without a one year old toddling about. John cleaned the flat, Sherlock played his violin. Nothing from Lestrade. He was bored.**  
**Very bored.**  
**He even shot the wall a few more times. Added a nicotine patch to the two that had been on his arm. He slept on the couch with his feet in John's lap. He moped around the kitchen with a chemistry set until something caught on fire (Sherlock's pyjamas) and John stopped that.**  
**He got a phone call, and he didn't answer. John did, and handed it to Sherlock. "Ah, Sherlock. She. Won't. Stop. Crying," came a hiss from Margaret.**  
**"Well, have you done something?"**  
**"I tried feeding her-"**  
**"What did you try?"**  
**"Baked beans and hot dog."**  
**"She doesn't like either of those things. Try peas, chicken, green beans, bananas, pears, and grape juice. Those are her favourites."**  
**"She keeps yelling."**  
**"Put her on."**  
**"Da-ee?" She was crying and he could definitely tell.**  
**"Hi Isabel."**  
**"I-wan-co-hum," she squealed. "I-wan-Da-ee-an-Joh-on-an-Mum-ee-dog!"**  
**"Where's your Mummy dog?" He'd found the problem.**  
**"I-dun-o!"**  
**"Her Mummy dog?" asked Margaret.**  
**"Yes, it's a patched up dog with purple ears. You'd better find it."**  
**"Okay, I know where it is. I took it away when she was not eating."**  
**"You can't take that dog. Ever. You get major freak outs if you do. You know that now."**  
**"Yes, thank you. Okay, that's all I needed." There was a faint "Wub you Da-ee" before the line cut. John raised a questioning eyebrow in Sherlock's direction.**  
**"Took her dog because she wasn't eating." John shook his head.**  
**"Bet they learned their lesson quickly."**  
**

A few days later, there was a knock on the door again. Mrs. Hudson answered it. A tired looking Margaret Allen stood there, holding an unhappy looking Isabel. "Hello. The boys are on a case currently, so..."**  
**"Here, just take her." Isabel was sucking on her fist, clutching her Mummy dog. Margaret handed her to Mrs. Hudson, and put the bag on the ground. She turned back towards the cab that had brought her and was gone. "Hmph." Mrs. Hudson took Isabel into her flat until the boys got back.**  
**Sherlock was feeling victorious when he and John returned home. He'd just solved a case, saved a small boy. Anderson and Donovan had fumed, Lestrade had arrested the perpetrator and everything was fine. Well, the boy was in the hospital, but he was recovering. "Boys?" called Mrs. Hudson as they went up the stairs. "Isabel's back!" Sherlock raced back down the stairs.**  
**"Thank god. It's been so boring," he said, walking into Mrs. Hudson's flat.**  
**"She's sleeping, on the sofa. She's been sleeping since she got here."**  
**"When did she get here?" he asked, walking over and staring at the sleeping baby.**  
**"Couple hours ago. She's been coughing. I think that she has a cold." She was shaking and sweating, sucking on her thumb. Sherlock picked her up, muttered a quick thank you to Mrs. Hudson and went upstairs.**  
**"I think," said John, "that she has the flu." Isabel coughed. Sherlock tried to give her a banana but she shook her head.

"No! Not hungry!"**  
**"You have to eat, baby."**  
**"No! I wan to sleep." John handed her a sippy filled with grape juice. She took a drink and spit it back up, crying and rubbing her eyes. Sherlock sighed and picked her out of the high chair, bringing her into his bedroom and laying her on his bed. She sniffled and curled up under his blanket, falling asleep almost immediately.**  
**When Isabel woke up, she did not feel very good. She crawled off of Sherlock's bed, lowering herself to the floor. She wanted juice. She saw the discarded sippy on the counter and climbed up to get it. She sat on the counter and drank her grape juice, staring at Sherlock and John, who were arguing. Mrs. Hudson was standing by the door with her arms crossed. She heard the word 'hospicle'. She didn't know what that meant. "Aw heeeeell no, Jawn. You fix her up," said Sherlock, bobbing his head and shaking his finger.**  
**"She needs antibiotics, gurl," said John, hands on hips.**  
**"Boiz, you're both cray cray, take that baby to the hospicle, now," cried Mrs. Hudson. Isabel shook her head. Something was definitely wrong.**  
**Sherlock was angry at John. John was happy with himself for convincing Sherlock to take Isabel to the hospital. Isabel was looking out the back window of the cab from her baby carrier, coughing. She looked at Sherlock and whined unhappily. John gave her the sippy. She drank it until her eyes started to droop closed. Sherlock was still staring out of the window unhappily. There was another route to the hospital that would've gotten them there sooner. He just wanted to get the antibiotics and leave. Just as it looked like Isabel was about to fall asleep, her eyes opened wide and she stared at Sherlock. Sherlock didn't notice, as he was staring moodily out the window as people and buildings raced past. John watched as Isabel took her sippy and flung it with all her might. It bounced off Sherlock's head.

"Wha-? Ow! Isabel, no!"

"Da-ee, you are bein' a grumpy!" Sherlock's mouth opened like he was going to say something, then snapped shut as the sour look left his face. John laughed. Isabel scowled at Sherlock. Sherlock stopped being as moody, and was grinning like a madman.

When they got to the hospital, John took the antibiotics, because he was afraid that Sherlock would take them home and use them in an experiment.

It was a quick trip.

They could tell when Isabel was well again. She stopped sleeping as much, and was done being a grouch. Sherlock figured it out when she woke him up by bouncing on his stomach like a trampoline. John figured it out when, later that same day, she clung to his leg and wouldn't let go as he walked around the flat, and she was giggling like mad. She also began climbing on the countertops and highjacking bananas and rusks.

When John walked into the flat with groceries, it smelled strongly of vinegar. Sherlock was sleeping on the couch, which is where he'd been when John left. He could hear Isabel giggling from the kitchen. He walked slowly inside to find a disaster area.

"Hullo Joh-on." There were bubbles everywhere.

"What in the world?"

"I foun bubbles in vine-gar and baking soda." She scooped up bubbles from the floor into her already bubble-filled hair. She laughed and splashed in her puddle of bubbles. "You wanna play?"

"Oh goodness gracious, no," said John, setting groceries on the counter and rubbing his temples. She pouted.

"Why don't you wanna play with me, Joh-on?"

"You need a bath." Isabel squealed.

"Yay! Then you play?"

"Maybe," he said, picking up the vinegar soaked child and holding her away from his body. He carefully made his way to the bathroom, trying not to let any vinegar or bubbles touch the floor. Once inside, he filled the bath with warm water and bubbles, and left again, shutting the door. "Sherlock!" he said loudly. Sherlock's head jerked up. He licked his lips and turned to John.

"Yeah?"

"Isabel filled the kitchen with bubbles."

"What she use to do that?"

"Baking soda and vinegar." Sherlock's eyes widened.

"She's smart."

"No shit, Sherlock. She's your daughter. She's in the bath. Go bathe her while I mop the floor." Sherlock reluctantly stood up and headed to the bathroom, a smirk on his face. John wholeheartedly blamed Sherlock for the incident. He was mopping a mountain of bubbles because of Sherlock's ways. Isabel had learned that because Sherlock would set her in a bumbo on the counter (which she could easily get out of) with a sippy cup and a set of toy keys, which didn't keep her entertained. Then he'd experiment for a while, making sure to clean it up before John came home, else John would throw away the experiment. He finished mopping quickly, putting cleaning supplies away in the baby-proofed cupboards. He busied himself with putting away groceries, until he heard a gigantic splash. "Oh hell." He was in the bathroom in a flash.

Sherlock had slipped on Isabel's vinegar sodden clothes and landed in the tub, butt first. He did not look happy about the fact that he was sopping wet and Isabel was rubbing bubbles into his hair, saying, "Da-ee needs a bath, too." She looked up at John as he walked in. John was laughing. Doubled over laughing. Sherlock scowled at him. "Joh-on gonna take a bath too?" He shook his head, wiping his face.

"No, I'm sure that Daddy was dirtier than me." Isabel nodded in agreement, rubbing bubbles onto his face.

"Da-ee," she whined. "You're supposed to take off your clothes!" Sherlock just shook his head. John laughed more.

He stopped laughing when Sherlock splashed him.

When Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs with the post, she was greeted with a sopping wet, bubble covered Sherlock, who was carrying Isabel, who was wrapped in a towel and patting Sherlock's wet hair. John followed with a wet jumper on. She sighed and shook her head, mumbling, "You boys are crazy," and setting the post on a table before heading back down the stairs.


	4. Chapter 4

"We need a babysitter," said John. It has been a month since the bathtub incident. There was a case in Norway- eight British teens had been killed in what seemed to be an accidental car crash, but Lestrade had been sent to the site and had sent pictures to Sherlock- and now him and John were flying out. Sherlock claimed that it was a 9 and that they needed to go, and John insisted that a crime scene in Norway was no place for a baby. They'd been trying to get a babysitter. Molly was sick with the flu, Mrs. Hudson was visiting her son and grandchildren, and Katrina's mother refused. John made a shot in the dark- he was sure that this wouldn't work.

'Need a babysitter for a few days. You willing? -JW'

'Anthea will pick her up. -Mycroft Holmes'

John was exceptionally surprised. "Well, I'm glad that's figured out," said John, walking into Sherlock's room. Sherlock was throwing things haphazardly into a suitcase, Isabel was watching with glee.

"What figured out?" asked Sherlock, holding up his purple shirt for inspection.

"Babysitting. We've got a babysitter."

"Who?" His eyes flicked to John as he tossed his purple shirt into the suitcase and grabbed a pair of socks.

"Make a guess." It was a couple seconds before Sherlock's eyes widened.

"You didn't."

"I did."

"He's going to eat her alive! Or leave her in the bathroom and she'll eat something and die!" He had thrown his arms up in the process of yelling and the pair of socks bounced into Isabel's reach. John took the socks and tossed them in Sherlock's suitcase.

"I'm sure that we are going to come back to an alive child." Sherlock groaned.

"I don't see why we couldn't leave her with someone else."

"Everyone else is busy, Sherlock. I'm surprised he even agreed at all, but the point is, he did, and we don't have time to find another person."

Sherlock reluctantly packed a bag for Isabel, and waited patiently for Anthea- or whatever her name was- to show up.

"Mycrof, where is Da-ee and Joh-on?"

"Norway," replied Mycroft, not looking up from his newspaper.

"Well, where's that?"

"Northeast." He stood up, checked his watch. He had a meeting soon. It was dinnertime, too. He glanced at Isabel, who was staring at him blankly. What did she eat? Surely the same thing that he did.

Set up at the kitchen table was mashed potatoes, peas, and chicken. He had put Isabel in a high chair when he received a text from John.

'How's everything? What's for dinner?'

'Good. Potatoes, peas, and chicken. -Mycroft Holmes' He fed isabel a spoonful of potatoes. She gave him a sour expression as she swallowed it.

'DON'T FEED HER POTATOES, THEY MAKE HER PUKE.' The text arrived a little too late. Mycroft was covered in vomit, as was Isabel.

"Ucky," said Isabel.

"Ucky," confirmed Mycroft, grabbing a napkin. The napkin wasn't enough to clean them both off. He cancelled his meeting and sent his clothes to the dry cleaner, putting his pyjamas on earlier than usual. He finished feeding Isabel, avoiding potatoes, then hauled her off to the bathroom.

She smelled pleasant when they exited. He dressed her in a onesie with pink flowers on it, setting her on the floor of the living room as he turned on the news. The remote was next to him on the sofa.

"This is boring," said Isabel, yawning.

"It's the news."

"News is boring." The channel flipped to small cartoon characters singing a song. "This is not boring," she said, clapping. Mycroft saw that the remote had moved from the sofa to on her lap. She moved fast.

"No, Isabel." He took back the remote and flipped it back to the evening news. Isabel crossed her arms and scowled. Mycroft could see the thoughts turning in her brain. She yawned again. Mycroft's attention was on the television, but he noticed when the weight on the sofa changed, because Isabel had climbed up next to him. She moved very fast.

"I'm tired," she said, tugging on his sleeve. He sighed, acknowledging the fact that his schedule would not be the same for the next couple of days. He switched the tv off, grabbed the baby, stood up, and went into the guest room that was closest to his, where he'd had Anthea put all of Isabel's things. Her old basinet was on the bed, and that's where he put her. She curled under her blanket, realising that her Mummy dog was next to her. She snuggled her face into it's neck and fell asleep. Mycroft decided against turning the news back on- he might as well get to sleep too.

When he woke up- at eight in the morning, slightly earlier than usual- he was surprised to notice that Isabel and her Mummy dog were snuggled into his side, sleeping soundly. He texted John, quickly, quietly.

'Does she usually crawl out of bed and get in with another person?

-Mycroft Holmes'

'Occasionally'

'Scratch that- Sherlock says all the time.'

'She doesn't like to be alone. Or bored.'

Mycroft placed his phone back on the table and waited patiently for Isabel to stir. He'd fallen asleep again by the time she had awakened. He woke up for the second time with Isabel nowhere in sight. Slightly confused, he stood up groggily. He was more worried that she'd find something important or swallow something harmful that the cleaning lady kept around. Those worrisome thoughts drove him to walking around his house, calling her name, until he reached the kitchen. Which is where he found her sitting in the fridge on the second shelf, chewing happily on a strawberry. His gasp of surprise was clearly audible in the silent house, and it immediately caught her attention. With eyes on him, she finished her strawberry, climbed out of the fridge, closed the door, wobbled over to him, and demanded, "Uppy." He did so without thought, trying to avoid sticky fingers. His avoiding didn't help, as she patted his cheeks affectionately, saying, "Moring Mycrof."

"Good morning, Isabel. What do you want for breakfast?"

"Not hungry," she said, patting her stomach. "I wanna play."

"Well, I wanna eat."

"You eat, I play." Taking the advice of a small child isn't always the best, but he complied and sat her on the living room floor with building blocks. These did not amuse her, however, as Mycroft discovered five minutes later, only halfway through making eggs and reading the post. There was a loud crash from the direction that she had been playing in. In a rush, Mycroft was there. Isabel lay under a heap of building blocks, sofa cushions, and a vase that had been sitting on a table. Luckily, the vase hadn't broken. It wasn't so much for the vase he was worried, though. Isabel's head popped up from underneath, and she did not look happy. "Owie!" she wailed, her lip quivering and tears rolling down her cheeks. No matter how much she looked, acted, or sounded like Sherlock, she's still just a baby, thought Mycroft, picking her up gently.

The maid nearly fainted when she walked in upon Mycroft singing to an infant.

By the time Mycroft turned on the news that night, he was exhausted. He'd taken Isabel to the park- and the zoo!- and was finally lying on the sofa with his hand loosely holding the remote. His head was on a pillow, his feet propped up on the opposite armrest. Isabel was lying firmly between Mycroft's left arm and his torso, sucking her thumb and drifting off to sleep. Mycroft didn't really notice when the news reports blurred into memories of the zoo as he drifted to sleep.

He awoke with a jerk at one o'clock in the morning, a crick in his neck the reason he had woken up. Isabel murmured something that Mycroft couldn't make out. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, groggily, unsure. Finally he decided to move to his bedroom. Picking up Isabel with ease, he walked from the couch into his room without waking her, forgetting, in that moment, that she had her own room, her own bed. All he knew was that he was tired, she was tired, and here was a bed.

He was slightly shocked when he woke up the next morning with arms curled almost protectively around her small body. She was staring at him, sucking absentmindedly on her fingers. He stood up slowly, taking her with him. She curled into his side, still sucking on her fingers.

Anthea was surprised when Mycroft cancelled his meetings again. He ended up taking a nap with Isabel at four, after Anthea had left for the day. Isabel had caused havoc in the kitchen earlier, filling the sink with bottle after bottle of dish soap and turning the water on. Mycroft learned quickly that she loved bubbles.

After naptime, Isabel demanded grape juice. All that Mycroft kept was orange, and that was for breakfast. So, since Anthea was gone for the day, he hauled Isabel up to the grocery store himself.

He felt rather foolish pushing Isabel around in a cart, through the baby isles. She searched the shelves eagerly with her eyes, searching for what she wanted. She squealed when she found a box of Farley's Rusks, and Mycroft reluctantly plucked a box off the shelf and into the cart it went. They went past more things that Isabel took a fancy too, like applesauce. It went into the cart. When they finally reached the juice boxes, Isabel had stood up in the cart and was staring with eagle eyes at the shelf until she found the grape juice, at which she pointed, her eyes wide. Mycroft grabbed a pack of twelve grape juice boxes, tossing them carefully into the cart. Isabel smirked victoriously as she sat back down again.

An old woman stared at them as they checked out. Well, not so much at Mycroft, more at Isabel. "Excuse me," she stopped them before he could go. He had Isabel in one arm and the bag of treats in the other. "How old is your daughter?" He did the math quickly in his head.

"Fourteen months. And niece, actually."

"Well, she's adorable." Isabel took notice of the compliment.

"Thank you," she said, waving as Mycroft nodded and walked away.

It had taken longer than Mycroft had expected. The knock on the door. Isabel had been playing with Mycroft's watch when the maid came into the room, followed by a young woman. Isabel paid her no mind, though Mycroft stood. She looked considerably different than that of the last time he'd seen her. Her brownish-blondish hair had been cut to right below her chin, and she had a fringe that reached her eyebrows. Her eyes were still the same pale blue that they had been before, but she had a small scar on her cheek and she wasn't wearing earrings like she always had before.

"Mycroft," she said curtly, "It's nice to see you." Isabel perked up at the sound of her voice.

"Katrina, are you well?"


	5. Chapter 5

Isabel had been snuggled with her mother, motionless, since she had been there. Katrina's fingers twirled absentmindedly through Isabel's dark, curly hair. She missed her father, but she had missed her mother for far longer. She wouldn't let her out of her sight. Earlier, Katrina had left the room to speak with Mycroft alone.

"I don't think I should stay for long. I don't want to risk seeing Sherlock."

"He won't be back until tomorrow. Besides, he hates coming to my house, he'll send John to come get her," said Mycroft, glancing lazily at Katrina, noting that her back had stiffened. She cleared her throat.

"Who's John?"

"His flatmate." She sighed in badly hidden relief. "But they're something more. They try to hide it, but, well..."

"Yes, not going to stay for long," said Katrina stiffly, coldly. Isabel had begun to wail because her mother had disappeared again.

Isabel wouldn't let her leave. She didn't want her too.

When she fell asleep in Katrina's lap, it was very much against her will. But Katrina had fallen asleep as well, and when Katrina was asleep, not a force in the world could awaken her.

Except John, that is.

"Mycroft, who is this?" he asked loudly. It was noon. He and Sherlock had caught an early flight after Sherlock completed the case. He'd be blogging about how Sherlock annoyed a bear and was chased around for a while later, but now he was focused on the woman sleeping on the sofa with Isabel on her lap. His loud screech-like yell had frightened Isabel awake.

"Joh-on!" she yelped, all smiles and bright eyes. Her loud exclamation awoke the snoozing Katrina. Isabel had bounced happily over to John, but began to hesitate when she saw Katrina standing up. John has already scooped her off the ground though, so she looped her arms around his neck in a self explanatory I-missed-you-why-did-you-leave-for-so-long hug. Mycroft walked in then, and his eyes widened in alarm, which was gone within a second.

"This is Kate, John. We have business to attend to, if you'd please leave." John's curiosity was in no way satisfied, but with the deathly look Mycroft was giving him, he mumbled something about lunch and left quickly.

Mycroft sighed unhappily when John walked out of the door with Isabel. He really didn't want her to leave.

"There was a woman with my brother?" asked Sherlock, surprised.

"Yes, he said her name was Kate, but I could tell he was lying. He looked... Alarmed to see me." Neither of them had heard Isabel murmuring 'Mummy' quietly to herself.

"What did she look like?" asked Sherlock, his interest at a peak.

"Well, her hair was sort of brown, but then blonde at the same time. Eyes were light blue, she had a scar on her cheek and earring holes but there wasn't anything in them." Sherlock's face had gone blank. He was thinking; John knew that face well. "She looked sort of... Angry with me. I don't know her, never have."

"You didn't, but I do." Isabel's voice was finally heard.

"Mummy."

"We are going to Mycroft's. Now," Sherlock added urgently. John scooped up Isabel and followed Sherlock out.

Luckily, they made it back in time, quietly entering the entryway. Mycroft was laughing.

"He's a different person now, Katrina, not the same. You need to find another infatuation." Sherlock nodded; he knew his assumption had been correct. John, however, looked fairly startled at this new discovery, and actually stopped for a moment before Sherlock grabbed his hand and tugged him forward.

"I'm leaving, Mycroft. Don't expect me back." She stormed out of the living room. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw Sherlock, John, and Isabel standing there silently. She pounced, and the only comparison that John thought could be made, was that of a cougar. She looked frightening. John watched in horror as she nearly flattened Sherlock in an attempt to get to his lips. Mycroft watched in horrified amusement as she locked lips with Sherlock, who was wide eyed and surprised. John nearly laughed at his expression. Sherlock pushed her forcibly away, wiping his lips free of the lemonade flavoured lip balm she'd been wearing. She straightened herself. She cleared her throat. "Sherlock," she said. "John," it was more of a snarl than a greeting. John wondered what her problem was with him. Sherlock knew, and Mycroft had guessed. The one to respond was Isabel.

"Mummy!" She was squirming unbelievably. John put her down cautiously after a few moments, eyeing Katrina. She ran to her mother who, in turn, picked her up.

"You're leaving?" Sherlock asked, no conflict in his voice. There wasn't a whisper of what had been in his eyes. John was silently thankful for that.

"Well, since you've arrived, possibly not," she said with a small smile.

"Since you're not dead," Sherlock emphasised the last word, "I've got some questions." Yes, like why you pretended you were dead, added John mentally.

"Go on," said Katrina, bouncing Isabel on her hip. John stared at the bright eyed, crazily entrancing woman. Mycroft listened intently.

"Why didn't you tell me?" His voice sounded hurt.

"I didn't think it was necessary; didn't think you would care," she spat.

"Why would I not care?" It felt like Sherlock had forgotten that Mycroft and John were in the room. "I actually.. I loved you, you know. And you just upped and left. And kept my child secret from me until you decided to die." His voice was full of more emotion than John usually heard. It was surprising, also, hearing Sherlock admit that he'd loved someone, out loud. He'd said it once before, though. Katrina let out a small breath.

"You never told me that."

"I didn't think you needed to hear." It was an honest statement, both Mycroft and John could tell by Sherlock's tone of voice.

"It wasn't just one child, by the way," added Katrina, completely ignoring Sherlock's last statement. Sherlock's eyebrows rose, Mycroft groaned, and John let out an inaudible gasp.

"What?"

"Chrissy," added Isabel helpfully a few moments later, thinking hard, trying to remember. Mycroft rubbed his temples. He shouldn't have invited her.

"Christine," corrected Katrina. She hated the nickname Chrissy. "Christine Marie Holmes. She died when she was three weeks old. And he," Katrina pointed an accusing finger at Mycroft, "knew all this." Sherlock was a mess now. Well, as much of a mess as he could get. He was pacing and rubbing his face, looking too sad for any normal human.

"I know Mycroft knew, I'm not stupid," said Sherlock, waving off the accusation against his brother. "I wish you would've told me about Christine though," he added sadly. Katrina looked conflicted at Sherlock's sadness- almost crying as he was. She had been expecting an outburst of anger towards Mycroft.

"It was.. Terrible," she admitted. She cleared her throat. "Do you know why I came back, though?"

"Because you still love him," said John without a second thought. Sherlock's eyes met his in surprise. Katrina was surprised as well, but that John had been the one to say it. Mycroft had already known the answer, as keen as he was to Katrina's outbursts. She cleared her throat again.

"Yes."

"Well then I suppose you should've come back a bit sooner," said Sherlock, crossing his arms. "Because it's a bit too late for that."

"Already told her," tossed in Mycroft. John made a half attempt at a scowl at him. Mycroft shrugged.

"Too. Late? You don't love me anymore?" Her breaths got shallower and quicker. She said words so quickly that no one in the room could understand what she was saying until she finished. "I might as well just leave!"

"There's no point in you staying," pointed out John. Mycroft smirked.

"So you really are leaving?" Sherlock sounded both relieved and pained to say it.

"Yes. And since I've got her, I might as well take Isabel with me." Sherlock's eyes has transferred from cold and calculating to caring and worried in that instant. John stopped breathing for a moment, and Mycroft's eyes widened.

"No," he said. Isabel's ears had captured every bit of their conversation. She was just as dumbstruck as the rest of them.

"Why not? You can't just take a child away from her mother." Mycroft stared with unbelieving eyes, as did John.

"As I recall, you did that, Katrina." She'd gone slightly mad since leaving. That fact registered in Sherlock's mind.

"And I'm going to take her back with me." Sherlock, John, and Mycroft now all wore the same worried, anxious expressions. Isabel looked up at Katrina with a confused expression.

"What?" Her voice was small, far away.

"You can come with Mummy," answered Katrina, smiling. Isabel's face grew blank, John's forehead crinkled.

"Can Da-ee and Joh-on come too?" Katrina's smile faded a bit. John's face perked when he heard the question.

"No." It was a firm answer.

Isabel's face crumpled. "Nu, nu nu nu nu nu," she cried. "Don' wanna, don' wanna." She was shaking her head.

"What?" This time Katrina's voice was small and childish.

"Down down down down!" she cried, flailing. Reluctantly, Katrina put her on the floor. Isabel didn't move at all, just sat there crying with her hands over her eyes. Mycroft watched, John worried, Sherlock wondered. She uncovered her eyes and snuffled, looking back and forth between Sherlock and Katrina.

Katrina pleaded angrily with Isabel. Sherlock asked a few times, worriedly. John stood there and watched the battle for Isabel ensue. She wouldn't look at anyone, wouldn't move or make a decision. The adults had left it up to the child to decide. It was when Katrina made a desperate grab for Isabel the the battle was won. Isabel bit her hand, hard, and ran to John, hiding behind his legs. Her eyes were fearful of her mother's angry face, red with rage and grief. Katrina made a desperately angry sobbing noise and dashed out of the house. Sherlock knew better than to expect not to see her again.


	6. Chapter 6

For the next few days, Sherlock totally immersed himself in case after case after case. John couldn't stop him. It seemed the only person who could control his raging work ethic was Isabel. After the first day, she noticed that Sherlock hadn't been eating and stopped, too. She was stubborn, just like Sherlock. She refused to eat until he did. He actually stopped experimenting long enough to down an apple and a glass of water, and Isabel decided that that was enough to get her to eat again. Sherlock had to go to bed at the same time she did, or she would hold herself awake all night waiting for him.

John knew that his silence had ended when he came back from the shops and Sherlock was sprawled across the couch, one shoe off and one shoe on. Isabel was sitting on the floor next to his hand, staring at a picture in a Mother Goose book that John read from to her before bed sometimes. She looked up at him, and then pointed at the picture in the book. John picked up her and the book, reading the nursery rhyme as she pointed to the picture. "Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John. Went to bed with his stockings on. One shoe off and one shoe on," John said, his eyes flicking to Sherlock's feet. "Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John." Isabel pulled her pacifier out of her mouth and pointed at Sherlock's feet.

"Duddle," she said tiredly before closing her eyes and placing her head firmly on John's shoulder. _Did she not get any sleep last night? _John asked himself, as Isabel was asleep within two minutes of closing her eyes. Instead of moving to set her down anywhere, he just sat down in the chair and thought for a while, drifting into sleep slowly and without realising it.

He was awakened forcefully not twelve minutes later by Sherlock shaking his shoulders and shoving his phone into John's face. "Look at this, John!" John glanced at Isabel, who was still sleeping on his shoulder, then glared at Sherlock and snatched his phone.

"I don't see what's so importa- Oh." It was from a number that wasn't saved onto Sherlock's phone, but John assumed it was Katrina, because it said, _I'm sending a social worker to get my daughter back. _"Can she do that?"

"I'm not sure."

"If she was pronounced dead..." Sherlock had withdrawn his phone from John's hand and stuffed it in his pocket.

"I'm not sure, but if a social worker does actually show up and this place isn't cleaned up a bit, then it'll be declared an unfit environment for an infant to live in and they'll take her." Sherlock picked up Isabel, who didn't wake up, and placed her on the couch, between the back of the seat and a pillow so she didn't roll onto the floor. He pulled a blanket over top of her and began picking up the odds and ends on the floor.

"We'd best get to work then. I'll do this, you dispose off all your hidden chemicals. And don't argue, I know where they are hidden if you don't," said John before snatching a spoon he spotted underneath the sofa.

By the time Isabel woke up from her nap, three or four hours later, the entire flat was spotless. Sherlock was giving Isabel a bath when Mrs. Hudson climbed the stairs with a man in an expensive looking suit who carried a briefcase. John was making tea in preparation and so no one was directly in the social worker's field of vision when he walked in. What he did see was the clean front room. John walked out with a tray of tea and biscuits, which he set on the table (which was clean; John was still in awe of how much room they had when everything was put away) when he noticed Mrs. Hudson standing there, looking pleasantly surprised at the change. "This is Mr. Jennings, he said he's a social worker? I don't want to know what you boys did," she said quietly, speaking so only John could hear, "but you better not let him take that little girl. Anywho, where's Sherlock and Isabel?" John nodded in agreement, and then said,

"Sherlock is giving Isabel a bath, he'll be out in a moment or two. Let me go talk to him." He excused himself from the front room, almost completely ignoring Mr. Jennings, except for the nod of his head he gave as a greeting. He opened up the bathroom door and stepped inside. Sherlock was holding Isabel, who was wrapped in a towel, and was draining the tub. "It's a good thing that you're done, Mr. Jennings is here."

"Ah. Well, I have to dress her and give her her sippy and rusk. Then we can talk with this Mr. Jennings."

John sat on the sofa, feeling uncomfortable, as Mr. Jennings sat in the chair with his briefcase in his lap, motionless, as they waited for Sherlock. "Sorry it's taking so long," muttered John as Mr. Jennings glanced at his watch impatiently.

"No, it's fine. He can take as much time as needed." As soon as he said it, Sherlock's bedroom door opened and Isabel toddled out in the otter onesie, sucking her thumb. Sherlock followed and grabbed a sippy cup, which he filled with grape juice, and a rusk, which he handed to Isabel, who squealed and then ran over to John, who picked her up. She sat on his lap contentedly and ate the rusk with gusto, taking a sip of the juice every once in a while. Mr. Jennings cleared his throat. "So. I'm here to see if this is a suitable place for an infant to live." Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "It's seems like it is so far, and you two seem like two very good parents." Sherlock nodded, leaning back into the sofa. Isabel burped loudly and giggled. Mr. Jennings looked at her. "She's very quiet."

"Not usually," said John.

"Duddle duddle dumpling," she cried, bouncing over to Sherlock.

"Hm. Well, the woman who reported you said you had chemicals in your flat. Is that true?" John thanked God that he had made Sherlock remove the pig's nose from the jar in the cupboard.

"If by chemicals you mean baking soda and vinegar, then yes. Otherwise, no. Why would we have chemicals in the flat? The only place suitable to work with chemicals is in a laboratory, which is not here. Obviously," answered Sherlock. Mr. Jennings wrote something down on a notepad he had retrieved from his briefcase.

"May I have a look around your flat?"

"Of course," said John. "I'll show you around." Sherlock put Isabel down on the floor, and she ran over to her blocks, which were the only things that had remained on the floor. "This is the kitchen. The cupboards are all baby-proofed, including the higher ones. The fridge is too, for good measure." The social worker opened a few cupboards to reveal the new jars of food that John had bought. The fridge was full of fruits, vegetables, a jug of grape juice, a sandwich on a plate that Sherlock hadn't finished for lunch, the leftovers from last night, and at least three gallons of milk. All the freezer held was ice and two tubs of ice cream, whereas earlier it had held a nose and an ear. They went into Sherlock's bedroom next, which was as spotless as the rest of the flat, surprisingly. The bed was made, the toys had all been put into a bin. He had stowed his test tubes in a shoe box in the back of his wardrobe with the label "Old Family Pictures" on it. He'd organised all the clothes and had put everything where it was supposed to go.

"Mhm, and where does she sleep?" John gestured to the crib that was against the back wall. He made another note on his pad of paper. "Where's the bathroom?" The bathroom was literally sparkling. There wasn't really anything of interest in the bathroom, so they moved on to John's bedroom. Which was always clean. There was nothing to look at in there, honestly, except his eclectic collection of jumpers. Before they got back to the living room, Mr. Jennings stopped John.  
"I've one more thing to say before we enter the presence of Mr. Holmes and the child."

"Isabel. Her name is Isabel," said John, crossing his arms.

"Yes, well. The woman who turned you in to the Child Protection Services told us that she was in an abusive home. We don't have any evidence of this, but I'll ask you now. Is it true?" John was appalled at even the thought of hurting his baby. He looked disgusted as Mr. Jennings stared at him with raised eyebrows, his pen poised above his pad of paper.

"No. No, she's not in an abusive home. I can't even think about doing that to her, God no. Who turned us in in the first place? Could I have her name?" Mr. Jennings was about to answer when there was a screech from Isabel who was in the living room. John rushed in, following Mr. Jennings, who thought he was taking the opportunity to catch an abusive parent red-handed.

What John saw made him laugh. Sherlock was blowing raspberries on Isabel's stomach and she was squealing and flailing her limbs with a smile on her face. "Is that enough evidence for you?" John asked. Sherlock scooped Isabel up off of the floor and settled her down quickly. She was tired again, which amazed John, because she was usually much more active than this. Most unlike herself, she snuggled into Sherlock's shoulder and gazed at John with sleepy eyes. Mr. Jennings made a move to pick her up from Sherlock, who frowned slightly but moved to give her to him. Isabel realised what he was doing and screeched until Sherlock handed her to John instead. "Why are you being so shy today, Poppy?" John asked.

"Poppy? You never call her Poppy."

"If you'd pay more attention, I started calling her Poppy when she accidentally said 'Papa' instead of 'John', which was a couple days ago," John said back quietly, glancing at Mr. Jennings, who was stowing his notebook back into his briefcase.

"That'll be all for now, sirs. I'll be on my way. You won't be hearing from us. You seem like perfectly capable fathers," he said with a small smile before showing himself out. John was confused at his change in attitude but shrugged it off.

Sherlock sent a text. _Appalling taste in social workers, Katrina. You didn't get him here soon enough. -SH_

She texted back rather quickly. _I did try to get him there sooner, I suppose. Don't expect me to stop at him, though. -K_

_Why would I ever think that? She's your daughter too, you just want her back. But you were pronounced dead, and I actually have full custody of her. Take me to court, but I've got my brother on my side. Plus it'll be hard for you to plead your case if you are supposed to be dead. -SH_

She didn't respond, and Sherlock stayed up even after John and Isabel had gone to sleep.


End file.
